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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26541022">Release</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actual_Writing_Trashcan/pseuds/Actual_Writing_Trashcan'>Actual_Writing_Trashcan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Colossus Hyperfixation Collection [84]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Deadpool (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Anxiety, Catharsis, Chronic Fatigue, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Self-Loathing, Sorry Not Sorry, and loves you just the way you are, ie the author projected all their issues into the fic oops, not technically canon to the series, piotr is the best husband, whoops this happened out of nowhere</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:00:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,293</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26541022</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actual_Writing_Trashcan/pseuds/Actual_Writing_Trashcan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You're exhausted. No matter what you do, you can't get enough rest to save your soul. You try to keep up with everything, try to not let the fatigue hinder you--</p>
<p>And then it all comes crashing down.</p>
<p>(Set after "It's Truly Magical," but this one is special in that it doesn't directly impact the canon. It's sort of a special one-off.)</p>
<p>[All warnings in the tags.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Piotr Rasputin/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Colossus Hyperfixation Collection [84]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1079544</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Release</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It creeps over you. It starts as a wispy, soft cloud, hanging over the horizon of your existence.</p>
<p>And then it grows. Larger, more oppressive. Until you’re fully immersed in it, with no sense of direction or how to get out.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>You’re not really sure you remember when it started. You’ve always been tired to some extent –anxiety, nightmares, and running on the X-Men schedule will do that to a person.</p>
<p>Exhaustion hits like a brick one day after training. You slump against the tiled wall in one of the shower stalls in the locker room. Water streams down your sweaty face and body while you struggle to make your eyes focused. <em>Shit. I must have pushed too hard.</em></p>
<p>You manage to get yourself cleaned up and trudge back to yours and Piotr’s home at the back of Xavier’s property. You collapse onto the couch in the living room. Your limbs are stone, too heavy to drag another step. Your body throbs in time with your heartbeat. <em>I need a nap. Just for a couple hours</em>.</p>
<p>You only want to sleep for a couple hours.</p>
<p>You only mean to sleep for a couple hours.</p>
<p>You wake up at nine in the evening, to Piotr gently nudging you.</p>
<p>He tuts, fussing over you like a worried mother hen. “Are you feeling well, <em>myshka</em>?” He presses the back of his hand against your forehead. “You have slept for long time.”</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” you mumble, mind still cloudy with exhaustion. You force yourself to sit up. You jaw cracks when you yawn. “Just overdid it in training today.”</p>
<p>Your husband gently chides you, ushering you into the kitchen so you can eat. “It is important to replenish energy.”</p>
<p>You go straight to bed after eating and sleep for another ten hours.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Part of you wonders ‘<em>how did I let this happen? How did I let it get this bad?</em>’</p>
<p>The other part of you wonders if you had any say in it at all.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The fatigue starts seeping into other areas of your life as well. Training, grading, hanging out with friends, eating…</p>
<p>You’re so tired. You chalk it up to mission stress, to going too hard during training, to running on weird hours all the time.</p>
<p>You start sleeping through the day to cope. No matter how well you sleep at night or how much sleep you get, you’re always so <em>fucking tired</em>.</p>
<p>Piotr notices the change in your sleeping habits. Because of course he does. It’s ingrained into his very DNA to be an observant, loving nurturer.</p>
<p>He brings it up during dinner one night. “Are you doing alright, <em>myshka</em>?”</p>
<p>“What? Yeah. Of course.” You’d woken up from a nap a couple hours before, and you feel <em>good</em> for once. (You’ll crash a couple hours later.) “Why? What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“You have been sleeping at odd hours,” Piotr says, stirring his soup with his spoon. “I just want to make sure you are not having mental troubles.”</p>
<p>“I’m fine, baby.” And, on that front, you are. You’ve got your meds, your support system, a home, creative outlets, and a fulfilling –if occasionally dangerous—job. “I’ve just been tired lately, is all. I think it’s the weird mission hours just putting my body clock out of whack.”</p>
<p>“You should try to stay on normal schedule, then,” Piotr points out. He frowns, concerned. “Is not good for mental health to keep odd hours.”</p>
<p>You bristle. You <em>are</em> trying, dammit. You push through training and grading and your obligations every single damn day, even if all you can do is collapse in bed afterwards. Who the <em>hell</em> is he to say that you’re not trying?! “I <em>am</em>, Piotr. You don’t have to micromanage me. I’m not one of your teens.”</p>
<p>Piotr recoils, blue eyes widening. He holds up his hands. “Easy, <em>dorogoy</em>. I am not trying to micromanage. I just want you to be healthy.”</p>
<p>You drop your gaze down to your bowl of soup. Your heart races in your throat. “Sorry.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s like being one of those houses infested with termites. You’re being consumed from the inside out. On the outside, you look fine. On the inside, you’re crumbling away like a sad, dry cookie left in the bottom of the cookie jar for five long, lonely months.</p>
<p>You’ve always been weird. You oscillate between outgoing and reclusive like nobody’s business. You’re a lot like Wade –somewhere between amusing and a nuisance to most of the adults, though most of the teens and kids like you.</p>
<p>(Piotr insists that it’s not true, that everyone likes you well enough, but you’ve never quite had the full faith to believe him.)</p>
<p>No one notices that you’re hurting. No one notices that something’s wrong. No one notices, no one <em>notices, no one fucking notices</em>—</p>
<p>But, to be fair, you hardly notice it yourself.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>You kind of start to lose your mind, if you’re being honest.</p>
<p>It’s hard enough to keep up with your workload with the mission scheduling –but being tired all the time slams the nail in the coffin. You manage to drag yourself to training on time because it’s mandatory, because it’s <em>important</em>, because it’s <em>for the good of your team</em>, and—</p>
<p>And everything else falls apart.</p>
<p>You spend countless late night hours on the couch cramming through your grading, because you needed to sleep earlier, and the deadline’s only looming closer, and you <em>have to be productive, dammit</em>—</p>
<p>More than once, you drag yourself up to bed when Piotr’s just getting up for the day.</p>
<p>He frowns, forehead creasing. “<em>Myshka</em>—”</p>
<p>“I had grading to do,” you mutter as you crawl back into bed.</p>
<p>He finishes buttoning up his shirt, then sits down next to you. The bedframe groans under his bulk. “This is not healthy, <em>moya lyubov’</em>.”</p>
<p>“I’m fucking working on it, Piotr!” you snap, glaring at your husband. “Just –leave me alone!”</p>
<p>He swallows hard, blue eyes shining with hurt. He looks like a kicked puppy.</p>
<p>You huff and slam your face into your pillow, mostly to hide the fact that you’re crying.</p>
<p>Piotr smooths your hair down, then kisses the back of your head. “<em>Ya tebya lyublyu, myshka</em>.”</p>
<p>You bite down on your pillow and cry harder.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s more than just being tired.</p>
<p>It’s guilt. It’s enough guilt to fill an ocean. No amount of effort you make is good enough; no matter how hard you try you wind up failing. Or snapping at someone you love. Or being unable to do even the simplest shit.</p>
<p>There’s so much anger, too. At the world, at anyone who points out that you’re not doing well, at yourself. There’s a scream constantly behind your lips, trying to crack its way out of your chest.</p>
<p>You’re failing. You’re trying to scoop up handfuls of sand to keep an entire dune from consuming you, and the grains keep running through your fingers; it practically looks like you haven’t done anything at all, and you’re <em>so fucking tired</em>…</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The ‘house’ collapses over a load of dishes.</p>
<p>One load of fucking dishes.</p>
<p>It’s ridiculous.</p>
<p>You manage to drag yourself out of bed one morning, trying to get the haze that seems to be a permanent fixture in your mind to clear. You trudge downstairs, energy sapping out of you with every step you take.</p>
<p>You see last night’s dishes in the sink, waiting to be rinsed and loaded into the dishwasher.</p>
<p>It’s an easy task. The dishes aren’t all that dirty, and there aren’t that many of them.</p>
<p>And you can’t do it. You don’t have the energy. You’re just <em>too fucking tired</em>.</p>
<p><em>You failed</em>.</p>
<p>You crumple to the floor, weeping against the wooden floorboards as the dam you’d been trying so hard to keep stable gives way. You scream, anger and guilt and frustration and self-loathing washing over you, crushing you beneath their weight. You clutch at your hair, seething as the past few months finally come to a head—</p>
<p>And then Piotr’s arms are around you. (Later, you’ll learn that he stopped back at the house to pick up a gradebook, which is why he was even around during the day in the first place.) He scoops you up, cradling you against his chest. “<em>Myshka</em>, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”</p>
<p>You sob into his shirt, beyond words.</p>
<p>“Okay, okay.” He checks you over to make sure you’re not visibly injured, then carries you upstairs to bed.</p>
<p>You whimper when he tries to tuck you in. “No –I’ve got stuff to do—”</p>
<p>“It can wait,” he says, loving but firm. He gently tugs the comforter over you, then toes his shoes off before laying down next to you.</p>
<p>“It can’t,” you cry, even as he tugs you into his arms and tucks you against his chest. “It’s already waited for so long.”</p>
<p>“And it can wait longer.” He kisses your forehead. “It is okay, <em>myshka</em>. Rest.”</p>
<p>You snuffle and sob and gasp—</p>
<p>And, eventually, you fall asleep.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>You wake up to Piotr stroking your hair. You inhale sharply, blinking to cast the bleariness out of your vision. “What time is it?”</p>
<p>“About noon,” he says.</p>
<p>Your heart sinks. “<em>Shit</em>. I’ve got grading—”</p>
<p>He places his arm over your waist, holding you in place. “It can wait.”</p>
<p>“But—”</p>
<p>“You had breakdown this morning, <em>myshka</em>. Health comes first.” He gazes into your eyes, brow furrowing. “Talk to me, <em>moya lyubov.</em> Please. What is wrong?”</p>
<p>Your heart rips into infinitesimal pieces at seeing him so worried –and then you start crying again. “I can’t…” You squeeze your eyes shut and buy your face against his chest. “I <em>can’t</em>. I can’t do it. No matter how much sleep I get, or I don’t get, or how much I exercise or don’t exercise, or what I eat or –any of it. I’m so tired, Piotr.” You let out a choked sob. “I’m just so tired, and I keep failing—”</p>
<p>Piotr rubs your back and kisses the top of your head. “It’s okay, <em>myshka</em>. It’s okay.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Eventually, you settle again. You’re snuggled against Piotr’s chest, sniffling and sighing while he strokes your hair.</p>
<p>It’s not a bad place to bed.</p>
<p>“How long?” he asks, voice quiet and gentle. “How long have you felt tired?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” you mutter, lulled to a state of near drowsiness by his ministrations. “A few months? Maybe a little longer? I’ve always been kind of tired, what with anxiety and nightmares and all that shit.”</p>
<p>He ‘hmms,’ kissing the top of your head. “Have you eaten yet?”</p>
<p>“…does leftover pizza at three in the morning count?”</p>
<p>He sighs, exasperated and amused. “Okay, time for food.”</p>
<p>“I can’t,” you whimper, tears coming back as frustration swells in your chest. “I’m too tired to eat.”</p>
<p>Piotr shushes you, gently drying your cheeks with a tissue. “What if I bring you something?”</p>
<p>You stomach churns with guilt and self-loathing. “I’m not a baby. I don’t… I shouldn’t need people to make food for me.”</p>
<p>“No, not baby,” Piotr agrees, kissing your cheek. “But you are unwell.”</p>
<p>“I’m not sick!”</p>
<p>“Unwell is unwell,” Piotr states, voice brokering no room for debate (though it never loses that gentle intonation of his). “If I bring you food, will you eat?”</p>
<p>You hesitate, then manage a small nod. “Something small, please. I don’t want, like, a whole meal.”</p>
<p>Piotr nods. He heads downstairs, then returns a few minutes later with some toast, fruit, a glass of milk –and some Cheetos.</p>
<p>You giggle when you see the fluorescent orange cheese-snacks on your plate. “You do love me.”</p>
<p>“<em>Navsegda</em>.” He hands the plate to you, sets the glass on your nightstand, then waits for you to start in on your toast before speaking again. “I think you should see Dr. Mccoy about fatigue.”</p>
<p>“But I’m not sick,” you argue after swallowing a bite of toast.</p>
<p>“That you know of,” he corrects. “Lots of things can cause fatigue. Is best to check, to make sure more serious problem is not happening.”</p>
<p>“But…” A lump rises in your throat. “What if this is just me now? What if… what if I’m just broken?”</p>
<p>Piotr takes your hand in his. He presses his lips against your knuckles. “Then we know, and we make life suited to your brokenness.”</p>
<p>“I can’t slow everyone down, Piotr,” you insist. Your eyes burn with unshed tears. “I can’t –I can’t be a burden. It’s not fair to everyone else if I’m getting some sort of special treatment because I’m tired.”</p>
<p>“You are not burden,” Piotr declares, gaze boring into yours. “You are <em>never</em> burden. Understand?”</p>
<p>“Piotr—”</p>
<p>“Things happen, <em>myshka</em>. Sometimes, our bodies just… do not work right anymore. You still deserve comfortable, happy life. Nothing is unfair about that. <em>Nothing</em>.” He kisses the back of your hand again when you sigh, then pats your leg. “Finish eating. We go to doctor afterwards.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The only way out is through.</p>
<p>Who would’ve guessed.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Dr. McCoy runs a series of comprehensive tests. Thyroid, allergy, iron deficiencies, vitamin deficiencies, glucose levels—</p>
<p>It comes back negative. All of it.</p>
<p>On one hand, it’s a good thing, given that you don’t have some sort of life-threatening condition that needs treating.</p>
<p>On the other hand, you just feel worse. It’s like proof that you have no excuse, that you’re tired for no reason, and that you just need to try harder.</p>
<p>“You are trying,” Piotr says when you admit as much. He draws you into a hug and kisses the top of your head. “We just need to find tools so that trying isn’t so hard.”</p>
<p>“What if there’s nothing?” you ask in a horrified whisper. “What if we try everything and nothing works?”</p>
<p>He kisses the top of your head again. “Then that is okay, too. However you are is okay, <em>myshka</em>.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“How’s the tai chi going?”</p>
<p>You shrug. “It’s fine.” Nathan had switched you over to low impact exercise the second he got wind of your fatigue issues. “Wade likes to do it with me; we like to try and incorporate lame dance moves into our sets to see if Nathan’ll catch us doing it.”</p>
<p>Alyssa chuckles and shakes her head. “And does he?”</p>
<p>“He definitely did when Wade started doing the worm.”</p>
<p>The two of you laugh together.</p>
<p>“And how’s your task setting going?” Alyssa asks when you both settle back down. She grins when you scowl. “Ooh, I knew that’d be your reaction. I knew you were not going to like it one bit. You keep trying to eat the whole whale, sweetheart. You’re gonna choke!”</p>
<p>“I know, I know.” You sigh, frustrated and dejected in equal measure. “It’s just… hard. I used to be able to do so much more. And now –it’s like my body was stolen away from me.”</p>
<p>“I know, sweetheart. And I’m so sorry. But it’s important that you learn to readjust your scope for what’s reasonable and what’s not. Otherwise, you’re gonna keep spinning yourself in anxious circles –<em>and</em> you’re gonna keep making the fatigue worse by overworking yourself.”</p>
<p>You groan and rub at your face with your hands. “It just… it feels wrong! Like I’m being lazy! I don’t have a <em>reason</em> to be so tired.”</p>
<p>“Sure you do,” Alyssa says, as if it’s that simple. “Your body is healing. You spent a lifetime being traumatized and abused. Your body put itself on hold to help keep you alive. You’ve dealt with your anxiety, depression, and trauma to the point where you’re stable, so now all those years of stress and pain are finally catching up. This is your body’s way of saying ‘hey, it’s my turn!’ So, now you need to listen to it.”</p>
<p>“But what if I don’t get better?” you ask, voice fraying. “What if I’m like this forever?”</p>
<p>She shrugs, tucking her braids over her shoulder. “That could happen; the amount of trauma you went through would be more than enough to result in a permanent presentation of chronic fatigue syndrome. But it could also get better, too. There’s no point in trying to predict the outcome.”</p>
<p>“But if I don’t get better, I’ll have to step down from being an X-Man.”</p>
<p>“There is more to this life than being an X-Man, honey,” Alyssa says, smiling warmly at you. “You have an entire world to discover. You just might have to do it at a different pace than everyone else. Your goal isn’t to get back to being an X-Man. Your goal is to take care of <em>yourself</em>.”</p>
<p>You tuck your knees under your chin and wrap your arms around your legs. “That doesn’t feel like enough.”</p>
<p>“How come?”</p>
<p>“Because it’s me. I have to do more to make up for the fact that it’s me.”</p>
<p>Alyssa points her pen at you. “That’s the anxiety and depression talking. You are <em>more</em> than enough, just as you are. Your worth is not based on your productivity or what you can offer to society. It’s based on your existence as a human being, that’s all.”</p>
<p>You drop her gaze, opting to look down at the ornate, ocean blue rug she keeps in her office instead.</p>
<p>“I want you to keep working on adjusting your goal setting,” Alyssa says as she jots down a few notes in your file. “Three things a day, whether it’s chore, work, or self-care related. Nothing else goes on that list unless you need to remember to do it, like taking your meds. Okay?”</p>
<p>You mutter your assent.</p>
<p>“Attagirl. I also want you to do your positive affirmations. Three times a day, plus whenever you get caught in negative thought patterns.”</p>
<p>You groan and slump down on the couch. “No! Positive affirmations suck!”</p>
<p>“They’re wonderful,” Alyssa fires back, chuckling. “They’re so good for you, so good for your brain…” She laughs when you retch, then closes your file and stands. “Alright, sweetheart. Keep at it. I’ll see you next week.”</p>
<p>Piotr looks up when you walk out of Alyssa’s office. “All done?”</p>
<p>“She’s making me do more positive affirmations,” you grumble (you can hear Alyssa laugh at your admission).</p>
<p>“Ah, is good for you,” Piotr says as he ushers you down the hall. “Good to say truth out loud.”</p>
<p>You retch again. “Not you, too. I need to go find Wade. He’ll understand.”</p>
<p>Your husband chuckles and shakes his head. “Come on, <em>myshka</em>. Back home with you.”</p>
<p>“Why does it have to be so far?” you groan. “It’s so much walking.”</p>
<p>“Are you feeling tired?”</p>
<p>You sigh. “Honestly, yeah. I’m really wiped out.”</p>
<p>Piotr puts an arm around your shoulder in a one-armed hug. “I am sorry, <em>moya lyubov’</em>. Would you like me to carry you?”</p>
<p>“I shouldn’t <em>need</em> carrying.”</p>
<p>Piotr stops. He cups your face in his massive hands, making you look up at him. “Is not about ‘should’ or ‘should not.’ If your body needs help, then you need help.”</p>
<p>You hesitate, but ultimately nod. “Yeah. I’d be nice if you carried me.”</p>
<p>He nods. He waits until you two are outside, then kneels so you can clamber on his back. “Hop on, <em>myshka</em>.”</p>
<p>You loop your arms around his neck. You wait until he has his arms looped around your legs, then point in the direction of your house. “Home, Jeeves.”</p>
<p>Piotr chuckles. “I am transport service, now?”</p>
<p>“Damn right.” You gently slap his burly chest. “Mush. I want Poptarts.”</p>
<p>Piotr laughs again, then sets off across the lawn.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>You’re not alright. Not technically. Alyssa’s right that you’ve been hurt. Healing takes time, and you’re just beginning your journey.</p>
<p>But you’ve got Piotr. Your family. Your friends. You’ve got Dr. McCoy and Alyssa as professional support. You have a home to rest in when you’re weary.</p>
<p>You’re okay –and on the days that you’re not, you will be.</p>
<p>And that’s more than enough.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, as some of you may have gathered from the tags, this fic is basically me venting my own frustration.</p>
<p>I've been dealing with some pretty wicked chronic fatigue for the better part of... coming up on a year now, actually. Wow. I didn't realize it'd been that long.</p>
<p>It's made life really hard for me, from everything to eating to doing chores to hanging out with friends to writing. We don't know what's causing it, and we're trying to take care of it through lifestyle changes and making sure I don't exert myself too much (we meaning me, my family, my fiance, and my doctor). There's been a few things that have helped, but by in large it's still been kicking my ass.</p>
<p>I know I was gone for a long time. Part of that was the fatigue making it impossible to write or post. To those of you who are still around, thank you -and I'm sorry. I'm trying my best, I promise.</p>
<p>If you're dealing with chronic fatigue or think  you're dealing with chronic fatigue, just know that it's okay that you're tired. You're not lazy. You're not a failure. You're not going crazy. You're not a burden. Your body needs rest, you need rest, and you *deserve* to rest.</p>
<p>Here's a resource on chronic fatigue syndrome and what it looks like: https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/chronic-fatigue-syndrome/symptoms-causes/syc-20360490#:~:text=Chronic%20fatigue%20syndrome%20(CFS)%20is,doesn't%20improve%20with%20rest.</p>
<p>I hope you're all doing well. Stay safe and wear your mask.</p>
<p>Much love,</p>
<p>The Author</p></blockquote></div></div>
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